


Battle of wills

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Regina isn't helping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-21 14:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: Gold just can't help himself. He's done what he said he'd never do and he's reneged on a deal, with none other than Belle, Storybrooke's librarian. But if he thinks Belle's just going to let him get away with it then he's sorely mistaken and soon the battle of wills between the two of them starts to escalate.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a quarter to nine on a Monday morning and Mr Gold is comfortably ensconced in his usual seat at Granny’s, engrossed in enjoying his coffee whilst perusing the financial pages of the New York Times. He’s so caught up, in fact, that he is completely unaware of the presence of Miss French, Storybrooke’s new librarian until without so much as a by-your-leave, she’s sliding into the seat opposite him, fabric rustling against leather.

Miss French may be all high heels and short skirts (today she’s a vision in navy blue chiffon and towering suede stilettos) but he has learned to underestimate her at his peril. Those sharp blue eyes of hers are matched only by her intellect. He now feels the weight of her gaze and he lifts his head from the newspaper to see her staring daggers at him. 

Well, well. What’s got Miss French so wound up?

He doesn’t have to wait long before he gets his answer. 

“You really are a piece of work, Gold,” she says, and her tone may be conversational but her eyes are like chips of ice.

“James.”

“Gold,” and Belle bares her lovely white teeth at him. He decides to not push it. She might bite.

Well, one can but hope.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” he enquires, all bland civility, and coolly beckons Miss Lucas over. She slinks to his table in an outfit that should look ridiculous on her, yet not for the first time Gold is reminded of a wolf that has scented prey. He can’t help thinking there’s more to the Ruby girl than she likes to let on.

“A refill for me please and a coffee for Miss French. White, one sugar.” 

Ruby raises her eyebrows at his peremptory command but he ignores her and Belle shrugs, her gaze never once leaving Gold’s face, so the waitress notes down the order and moves away, her ‘something’s about to go down’ radar pinging very loudly indeed. Best to watch the explosion from a ringside seat but one that’s far enough away to mean she doesn’t get caught up in the crossfire.

“You know perfectly well why I’m here, Gold,” and Belle is all but snarling at this point. “You promised me that the mayor would leave me alone. We had a deal and we all know that Mr Gold never reneges on a deal.” Belle says this last part in a sing-song voice that if you weren’t paying attention might sound playful but Gold is hanging on her every word so he isn’t fooled for a moment. She’s absolutely livid. “So imagine my surprise when I find this lying on my doormat this morning.”

A beautifully manicured nail taps out a rhythm on the table top before with a flourish she produces from her purse a slim white envelope and slaps it down between them. When Gold displays little or no interest (well why would he, he knows what it says, he was there when Regina wrote the damned thing) Belle snatches it back up, pulling out a sheet of clearly very expensive writing paper and starts to read it out loud. 

Gold can’t help it, he feels his mouth twitch a little. Belle’s mimicry skills are second to none and if he was to close his eyes, it would almost be like Regina was sitting opposite him, dark eyed and red lipped, sardonic in tone, hard as nails.

“Dear Miss French, it is with regret,” and Belle pauses to roll her eyes, “that I have to inform you that as Mayor I have had to take the difficult decision, following concerns being raised by a worried” (and here she snorts inelegantly) “local inhabitant about the stability of the roof of the building, to temporarily close the library while the town council carries out a series of health and safety checks. I am sure you appreciate that we must put our citizens’ safety above all else. I am confident that Mr Gold will be able to provide you with any practical advice and support and we hope this will not inconvenience you too greatly.

Sincerely, Mayor Regina Mills.”

Gold meets Belle’s seething look with one of utter blandness.

“I fail to see why you’re so cross, Miss French. The mayor is simply carrying out her civic duty. We wouldn’t after all wish to see young Henry knocked out cold by a piece of plaster falling from the ceiling.”

“Oh please Gold, don’t give me that. As if you care about Regina’s son. And don’t for a moment think that I don’t know exactly who alerted the mayor to the problems with the roof in the first place,” Belle snaps. “I’ll hazard a guess that he’s about five feet seven tall, wears stupid expensive suits and fancies himself a city hotshot.”

“Five feet eight, actually.”

Belle huffs before she shoots a withering reply his way. “Oh I’m so sorry. Selling you short, was I?” 

He’s ready with a response but Belle is already onto her next point. And she’s on a roll.

“And cross? Cross doesn’t even come close to describing how mightily unhappy I am with you right now so don’t you dare try to placate me. What was the point - exactly - to all those visits you’ve been making to the library over the past few months, hmmm? To sniff out an opportunity? To seek out a new victim for you to bully? And to think I actually believed you were there because you actually enjoyed my company, that we’d become friends, that you...” 

Belle breaks off abruptly as Ruby approaches the table with their drinks and Gold isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed by the interruption. On one hand, he’s more than a little curious to know what else she’d wanted to say, but on the other his conscience is starting to prick him a bit and whilst he loves a good old fashioned confrontation as much as the next person, he doesn’t like the idea of Belle being distressed. She is after all the closest he has to a friend in the town if you ignore Regina, who’s more like a co-conspirator and the only person who can match him drink for drink when it comes to putting away a bottle of scotch.

Gold is brought back to the present when Belle rips open the packet of sugar with what he deems to be unnecessary gusto and pours the contents into her coffee before stirring them in with considerable vigour.

He listens to the clink, clink, clink of the spoon as it catches the side of the cup for a few moments and then he just can’t help himself.

“Careful Miss French. You don’t want to risk splashing that lovely dress of yours.”

There’s a very long pause and Gold does wonder if perhaps he’s gone a little too far this time. Then Belle gets to her feet and very deliberately picks up the cup and pours its contents into his lap.

“We’re done here Gold.”

And in the time it takes him to register the heat and the pain, and the anger at her daring to behave like that, she’s out of the door, leaving behind an audience of completely thrilled spectators. Ruby looks positively all agog.

Fuck. That didn't go exactly as he'd planned. It seems that the first round has gone to the librarian.


	2. Chapter 2

Belle’s happily pottering around her apartment, a glass of orange juice in one hand, enjoying the early morning rays of sun that are casting a warm glow in the kitchen. She’s decided to make the most of her enforced time off work and has got the perfect day lined up; pancakes and coffee at Granny’s followed by a stroll around the marina and perhaps if she’s feeling decadent, a visit to the local bookshop to check out any new publications. Then back here to make a batch of fresh linguine and cook up a rich tomato sauce before heading out for a drink or two with the girls to celebrate vanquishing Gold and wrapping up with a delicious supper and a glass of cold white wine, watching Pride and Prejudice. The one with Colin Firth because he is Mr Darcy.

She hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Storybrooke’s very own dragon for 48 hours and she hopes nothing will happen to change that. With any luck he’s lurking in his lair, licking his wounds and making the sensible decision to leave her well alone. She allows herself the luxury of savouring just for a moment, in the privacy of her own home, the fact that she has worsted Gold in battle. Not many people in Storybrooke can put that on their CV. 

Glancing at her watch, it’s already well past nine o’clock. Belle’s about to start getting ready when she hears the telltale signs of the post being delivered. She idly flicks through the bundle of mail; a gas bill, a reminder to try out the newly opened ice cream parlour, a postcard from her father and - oh, now this looks more interesting. A thick, clearly expensive manilla envelope, no stamp, just her name in block capital letters. Intrigued, Belle drops the remaining unopened letters on the dining room table and eagerly opens the letter. 

00000

Belle is glaring at the coffee cup in front of her as if it’s personally offended her and it takes a determined cough from Ruby, as well as the sound of her pancakes being placed on the table, to bring her round. 

“So, what’s happened to make you look like you’re chewing a wasp?”

Belle says nothing for a moment and then, trembling with the effort to keep her emotions in check, shows Ruby what’s made her so mad. Ruby carefully reads the note, written in an elegant scrawl whose every flourish smacks of relish and enjoyment, and then winces on looking at the attached invoice. She sensibly refrains from comment.

Belle’s voice is low and angry. “The nerve of the man, Ruby, I cannot believe the nerve of the man. Who does he think he is, sending me the invoice for having his suit dry cleaned?” Not waiting for a reply from the girl opposite her, she studies the receipt again, perhaps in the hope that she’s somehow misread how much a moment’s anger is going to cost her.

Inhaling deeply, Belle comes to a decision. “Well, if he thinks I’m paying him a single dime he’s got a long wait ahead of him. He wants a fight, then a fight he’s got. $125 indeed.”

Ruby’s comment that well, Belle did pour a full cup of coffee that was hot enough to do him some harm, doesn’t go down terribly well. It seems Belle isn’t in the mood to be reasoned with. Instead she talks wistfully of tipping Gold into a vat of boiling oil and seeing how he likes that whilst aggressively stabbing her pancake with her fork so Ruby decides to leave Belle alone until she’s calmed down a little. Which might be some time. 

Ruby’s just on her way back to the counter when the door opens and on turning to see who the new customer is her heart sinks into the bottom of her tiny shoes. It’s the mayor, sleek and chic. Ruby frantically tries to head her off but Regina is nothing if not determined and swats the waitress aside as if she was a fly, and makes a beeline for Belle.

‘Miss French.” Regina’s tone is all faux-politeness and it immediately sets Belle’s teeth on edge.

Just when she thought her day couldn’t get any worse. 

“Madam Mayor. Forgive me if I don’t ask you to take a seat.”

Regina’s eyes gleam.

“How are you enjoying some time out from that exhausting job of yours, Miss French. I do hope you’re taking the opportunity to recharge your battery.”

“Is there something I can actually help you, or are you just here to annoy me?”

Regina’s practically purring. “Oh I was just passing and wanted to stop by to make sure that you were receiving all the assistance you needed from Mr Gold. He was most adamant that he was at your service, should you require it.” She leans over Belle and Belle catches a faint hint of a heavy perfume. “Just be careful my dear that you don’t let him get too close. He might bite.”

And with that, she’s gone leaving Belle clenching the table top so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. She cannot let Gold and Regina win. The pair of them think they’re so clever, well this time they’ve picked the wrong person to play with. With a look of grim determination in her eyes, she asks for the check. Time to put the ball back in the pawnbroker’s court.

00000

It’s nearly lunchtime and Gold is in the back of his shop tinkering with the mechanism of an antique music box but he’s struggling to remain focussed on the task in hand. Instead he’s musing on what Belle’s next move might be. Knowing her propensity for impetuosity he’d been expecting a rather rapid response to his sending her the invoice but instead there’s been an unexpected lull in their confrontation which has left him feeling - somewhat disappointed, if truth be told. 

He’s distracted from the saccharine melody the box is playing when he hears a heavy thump from the front of the shop. By the time he’s made his way over to the door, there’s a plain brown envelope lying on the floor no sign as to who might have delivered it. 

The front of the envelope, intriguingly, has a name on the front that has been heavily scored out, as if the author had started to address it and then had a change of heart. Gold takes it over to the counter and retrieves a carved ivory letter opener (he’s a man without many friends so better to be safe than sorry) before gingerly slicing it open.

There’s an explosion of confetti.

Once Gold’s heart has settled back into a steady rhythm he sees that he was mistaken. It’s not confetti but instead numerous shreds of paper and on one piece he’s pretty sure he can make out part of the dry cleaner’s logo. It appears Miss French has finally made her move. 

Smiling grimly he picks up his phone and scrolls through until he finds Belle’s number and types a brief message before pressing send. 

He doesn’t have to wait long for the reply. It’s equally to the point, if slightly less polite. He’d expected more of a woman priding herself on having an extensive vocabulary.

His response is slightly longer.

“As much as I’d wish to comply, I’m afraid dropping dead is out of the equation.”

He waits patiently, an image forming in his mind of Belle glaring hard at her phone and he has to tamp down a smirk.

Ping. “I’m sure something could be arranged.”

This time he doesn’t hold back on the smirk as he types his reply. “Well perhaps we can discuss this in person. I suggest I come to your apartment at six o’clock this evening so we can discuss suitable recompense.”

This time there is a far longer gap between messages. So long in fact that he returns to the task of cleaning the music box’s mechanism. When his phone does buzz, he decides to ignore it. Fifteen minutes later, there’s a second buzz, followed by a third just as Gold is letting his tea brew. It seems his pot of earl grey is not the only thing being left to stew.

He settles into his armchair, cup and saucer perched on the arm, a saucer of chocolate biscuits in front of him and a first edition of Vanity Fair he’s been saving up to read and heaves a sigh of contentment. He has everything he needs right here plus, as an additional bonus, somewhere not that far away is an undoubtedly furious librarian.

He’s so caught up in the machinations of Becky Sharp that the sound of the door bell jangling startles him. The fact that he doesn’t get a lot of footfall through the shop combined with the well-known impetuosity of the lovely Miss French must certainly mean - aha, sure enough there’s a fast clack clack clacking of heels and suddenly the curtain is yanked apart to reveal said furious librarian, today wearing a canary yellow sundress. Gold observes that the sunshiney look she’s probably aiming for is somewhat marred by the thunderous look on her face. It seems a storm may be on the horizon.

Gold carefully moves his tea out of reach (better safe than sorry given Belle’s propensity for spilling hot beverages without warning and this is one of his favourite suits) and then stands up. Belle makes no move to step closer but he can see that she’s breathing heavily. 

Well hot-footing it around in shoes like that is going to take it out of you, he thinks drily.

“Belle, well this is an unexpected pleasure. I thought we’d agreed I’d call round to see you this evening.” Gold purrs, his voice all gentle malice wrapped up in a cocoon of polite gentility. As befitting a man of his station.

“Miss French,” she bites out. “You haven’t earned the right to call me Belle.”

He shows his teeth in a semblance of a smile that fools no-one. “Very well. Miss French it is.”

Belle matches his false smile with one of her own. 

“And we agreed nothing, Gold. You just assumed that you could turn up at my home and force me to pay up. Well think again. You’re not getting a thing from me, not one single dime. And if you do turn up at my flat, ever, I’ll be on the phone to Sheriff Swan reporting you for harassment before you can count to three. So this stops now.”

Belle swivels on her heels but before she can make her exit, Gold’s next words bring her to a screeching halt. It’s not just what he says but how he says it. His voice is devoid of emotion, no inflection at all, but it sends shivers down her spine.

“Miss French. Before you leave so hastily, there’s just one more thing. I think it’s time for us to review your tenancy agreement. I do believe I have the contract somewhere to hand and if memory serves me correctly I understand that as your landlord I have the right to visit the tenant and check the premises to make sure everything is present and correct so long as I provide you with sufficient notice. And I believe that six hours notice is more than generous. So I’ll see you at 6pm. Make sure you’re there. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Belle moves so fast he doesn’t have time to put something large and solid between them, something he quickly regrets when she pokes a long fingernail in his ribcage. “You’re despicable. Why would you do this to me? The dry cleaning bill was for $125. It’s a drop in the ocean to you, so why won’t you just let it go?” Another quick jab of her hand (for a wee person she’s surprisingly strong) and he can’t help but wince.

Deciding to stop her onslaught before she does some serious damage, he takes hold of Belle’s wrist and tugs her even closer to him so suddenly her body is flush against his. Despite those towering heels of hers, he’s pleased to see that she still has to raise her chin to look up at him. Their eyes lock and he’s now uncomfortably aware that his heart is beating somewhat faster than normal. She’s warm and soft and he can feel her pulse fluttering. 

Gold is not sure how things have so quickly spiralled out of control. A few moments ago he was about to drink his tea and take a well-deserved break and now his arms are full of a very angry, extremely beautiful woman who was - until a few days ago - the closest thing to a friend he has in this town. So, unsurprisingly given his talent for self-destruction, he proceeds to drive an even wider wedge between the two of them. 

“Because it’s the principle of the thing, dearie,” he hisses, and he not just sees but feels Belle flinch. “You could have scalded me. I could have ended up in hospital. Did you think of the fees that would have incurred? So, all things considered, in the grand scheme of things, $125 is nothing. You should count yourself lucky I’m not suing you.

“Well you started it.” Belle says petulantly and Gold can’t help but smile for a second when he sees her mentally clocking what’s she’s just said. She really is rather enchanting when she pouts. And it seems that perhaps he’s not the only one to not be thinking clearly. 

Good to know.

Gold gently releases her and Belle stumbles back a step or two. Her face is flushed, eyes the deepest shade of sapphire imaginable. They stare at each other for just a second too long before Gold tries to wrestle back some semblance of control. 

“Well, I’m more than happy to finish it. We can discuss my reimbursement when I call round this evening with your tenant’s agreement. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do,” he says in a tone brooking no argument. He punctuates the statement with a dismissive wave of his hand to signal the conversation is over. 

He watches carefully as a range of emotions flicker across Belle’s face (if there’s anyone who has a worse poker face he’d love to meet them). There’s anger. Disbelief. Dismay. Followed by disappointment. And then, suddenly there’s an expression that cuts short Gold’s internal celebration because although fleeting he’s pretty sure that was a glint of amusement in her eyes. He notes with a sense of foreboding that she’s giving her lower lip a thoroughly good chew and he knows that this is Not. A. Good. Thing. 

Belle’s transition from hot rage to something less easy to define is rapid and really rather unsettling and Gold’s discomfort continues to grow in direct correlation to Belle’s cooling temper. Another beat or two of silence and it’s clear that Belle has come to some sort of internal decision. He waits as impassively as he can for her next move.

When it comes, it’s absolutely not what he expected.

“Fine. I agree we need to come to some sort of agreement so I’ll see you at six o’clock.” Another of those sharp-eyed looks from under her lashes and then like a miniature yellow tornado she’s gone.

Gold waits until he hears the door slam shut and then he slumps into his chair, releasing a sigh he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. Instead of feeling he has Belle snugly in his clutches, he now can’t quite ignore the sense of foreboding that is creeping up inside him. Is it his imagination or did Belle acquiesce just a little too easily. Did she look just a little bit too much like the cat who ate all the cream?

“What are you up to, Miss French?” he mutters to himself.

He glances at the clock that ticks gently on the mantelpiece. He still has plenty of time to have a bite to eat, hunt down the contract and change into his most intimidating armour. 

well, well. Let Miss French bring the game to him. He’s forewarned and therefore forearmed. There can only be one victor this evening, and it most definitely won’t be the librarian.


	3. Chapter 3

The storm that’s been threatening to break all afternoon is now in full flow and the rain is teeming down by the time Gold takes a deep breath and starts to walk up the stairs to Belle’s apartment. 

Arriving at her front door he raises his hand to knock before hesitating for a moment. A small part of him (the logical part) tells him that he’s made his point and that he can now call it a draw and let Belle off the dry cleaning bill. But then the devil on his shoulder whispers convincingly in his ear that she chose to escalate the matter and that he has done nothing wrong (apart from the small fact that he broke his deal with her). 

His resolve settles and he raps sharply to alert Belle to his arrival. When there’s no response he checks his watch. Ten minutes early, a deliberate ploy aimed at keeping the librarian off balance. A second, louder knock delivers the same result, namely silence.

Shivering slightly because it’s damp and cold in the stairwell, Gold smiles grimly. He’s happy to wait her out, if that’s how she wishes to play it. A little bit of rain never did anyone any harm although he wishes he'd used an umbrella on his way over. He’s just finding a standing position that’s comfortable when suddenly the door is flung wide open to reveal - 

Belle, who is, to Gold's horror, wearing little more than a tiny pink towel that - well, that is tiny. Her hair is hanging down in wet ringlets and he tries desperately hard not to track the water droplet that falls from a curl and starts to make its way down her clavicle. Judging by the look being shot in his direction, he’s not been entirely successful.

Gold starts to wearily wonder if he should just quit this game of cat and mouse while she’s not so far ahead as to be in a different time zone but just when the silence threatens to deafen him, Belle clearly tires of seeing his best trout impression and says, rather acerbically, “well are you planning on coming in or were you expecting to conduct this conversation on my doorstep?” 

He stops goggling and instead uses up valuable energy in producing what he truly hopes is a death stare before squeezing past her and into the living room. Once in situ, Belle slams the door shut and announces that he should take a seat and that she won’t keep him waiting too long.

00000

Thirty minutes later and of Belle, who clearly has no sense of what passes for a short period of time, there is still no sign so Gold is amusing himself by examining some of the books lining the tiny alcove above a window. It seems Miss French has eclectic taste as he spots the complete works of William Shakespeare, a number of Agatha Christie novels, a few poetry anthologies and an interesting mix of modern literature and American classics.He’s just pulling out a copy of Vile Bodies when the door behind him opens.

It seems his heart is in for a battering this evening, if it ever cranks back up again. Gold doesn’t believe it’s possible but he actually wishes that Belle had stuck with wearing the towel. 

It looks like the time spent in her bedroom was time well spent. Somehow defying the laws of physics, she’s managed to pour herself into the tightest, shortest, most seethroughest dress in creation. There’s a silver zip running tantalising down to just below where her belly button would be, that makes his mouth go dry at the same time his palms start to sweat. A lot of the fabric (or rather most of the little bit of fabric she’s actually wearing) is most definitely transparent. 

Her lips are scarlet and her hair is artfully arranged in some sort of updo with ringlets that are cascading down her back.

He has to grudgingly admit that the first point of the evening goes to her, if you discount the towel incident.

Belle sashays over to the dining room table.

And there goes the second point.

Well, he might as well enjoy the view so he admires the way the dress hugs to her every curve. 

Half a point to him.

Gold concentrates very hard on not looking at Belle, choosing instead to study his shoes.

“Something about the carpet fascinating you, Gold”? Belle enquires in an interested tone. 

He turns to answer with a quip of his own but is distracted by a small ball of fluff that starts to emerge from behind a plant pot. Gold prays it’s not vermine because he’ll not have a leg to stand on if he decides to use the tenancy agreement as leverage but on closer inspection he sees that it’s a tabby kitten. So, not technically vermin. Green eyes meet the darkest brown in a staring contest where there’s only ever going to be one winner. Gold blinks first and the kitten strolls out and clambers up onto the sofa, curling into a ball on one of the cushions.

Belle coughs and Gold turns back to her. She’s conjured up a bottle of red wine and two glasses and gestures for him to come and take a seat at the dining room table.

“I thought we should try and keep this civil so would you like a glass of wine?” Belle asks. He nods and watches as the cork is pulled with a satisfying pop before she pours two generous measures.

“Trying to get me drunk, Miss French”? He quizzes her.

She eyes him speculatively over the brim of her glass. “Now what on earth makes you think I’d try a dirty trick like that?”

He splutters at her bare-faced audacity. He’s yet to meet anyone more proficient at playing dirty. “You’ve been spitting nails at me for the last few days and now it’s all ‘let’s play nice’ so forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced.” He takes a cautious sip and is pleasantly surprised that it’s half decent. “Besides you forget I’m Scottish. I practically have whiskey running through my veins so if your plan involves trying to lower my resistance you might need to have a rethink.”

Belle hums thoughtfully as she takes a drink before gently admonishing him. “Oh Gold, Gold, Gold. As if I’d stoop as low as that. There is, after all, more than one way to skin a cat.” She looks over at the kitten and mouths ‘sorry’ at it. Gold can’t help snorting.

“I don’t think that moggy can understand a word you’re saying.”

She glares at him. “Dave is extremely intelligent, I’ll have you know.”

“Dave?” Gold is rendered almost speechless.

“Yes, Dave.” Belle replies defiantly before wiggling (does she really need to do that, Gold wonders, she’s surely already made her point) her way over to where the cat sits and returns with the wriggly scrap of fur in her arms. “And before you say anything, I’ve checked the lease and pets are allowed.”

Mention of the lease drags Gold back to the point of this visit that is, he thinks wryly, going so terrifically well. He starts to pull the documentation from his briefcase when there’s a pinging noise from the kitchen and Belle is up in an instant, dumping her cat unceremoniously in Gold’s lap before she bustles off. 

Gold sighs and scratches the cat behind its ears. He’s so used to dealing with tenants who demonstrate very straightforward emotions that tend to range from angry to extremely angry that Belle’s ability to swing from fury to outrage to insouciance is rather discombobulating. Shouldn’t she at the very least be on edge or ill-at-ease, he ponders. Instead, she seems to be quite relaxed and comfortable in his presence. She’s either a phenomenal actor or he’s losing his touch.

His thoughts are broken into because of the crashing and banging coming from the kitchen that makes Dave mew plaintively (is she taking her frustrations out on the tableware). Gold is just in the process of gently lowering the cat to the ground when Belle reappears carrying a massive tureen that’s belching steam and an aromatic aura of spice and herbs. She plonks it down on the table, vanishing again only to return with plates and cutlery.

Yet again Gold is wrong footed. He had turned up this evening expecting Belle to escalate hostilities but instead she’s made food and is clearly expecting him to sit with her and eat supper.

She serves a huge portion of what looks like pasta in a tomato sauce and when he remains silent Belle sends a look his way that is clearly daring him to say anything. “Homemade linguine in a mildly spicy sauce. Nothing you can’t handle I’m sure,” and she shoots another glance at him that has more than a hint of challenge in it.

Gold can’t help sniffing the air appreciatively. His stomach gives a tiny rumble (he’d ended up not really eating much at lunchtime and he now realises that he’s ravenous). Well, he’s not averse to the occasional Thai curry so he’s sure he can more than cope with anything she throws at him.

“It smells delicious. Thank you,” he says, because, well what else can he say, and watches as she gives herself the same size portion (where does she put it, especially in a dress like that).

He knows this is breaking every rule in the ‘How to be a successful landlord’ handbook. He thinks that there’s probably a whole chapter setting out “Do’s and Don’ts,” with sharing food with your tenant being pretty high up the list of Don’ts. But he’s hungry and he’s pretty sure it’s not poisoned so…

As if she’s read his mind, Belle chirps “don’t worry, I haven’t laced it with laxatives,” before ladelling an improbably generous bundle of pasta into her spoon.

So be it. He’s here now, there’s food on the table. He might as well play along. Gold removes his jacket (he’s keen to avoid splashback) and tie before carefully tucking his napkin into his shirt once he’s undone the top two buttons (and mentally thanks any Gods listening that he opted for navy this evening).

A small choking noise makes him look at his host (correction: she’s his tenant, he is her landlord). Belle’s eyes have widened but they’re not on his face, they’re fixed on the tiny triangle of flesh above his shirt. Gold’s puzzled, he has no idea what’s going on so he helpfully pours her a glass of water. 

“Did you catch some pepper in the back of your throat”? 

Belle’s eyes lift to meet his and she nods frantically.

“Have a sip of water, that’ll soothe it,” he advises before carefully and skillfully skewering a forkful of pasta. 

It takes just one mouthful to realise what she’s done. Fuck. There must be an entire tub of chili fucking powder in the sauce. He thinks it’s removed a layer of skin from the roof of his mouth and he can feel the sweat pouring from his forehead. He can no longer feel his tongue.

Oh, Miss Butter wouldn't Melt in her Mouth French really is a piece of work but he’s damned if he’s going to give her the satisfaction of letting her know the pain he’s in. Gritting his teeth he chews his way through another mouthful.

“It’s really very good,” he lies, but it comes out as more of a pant and Belle’s eyes shine with something he can’t quite get a read on. As a bead of sweat drips off the end of his nose and he prays for someone to just put him out of his misery, she silently hands him a glass of water and he’s too grateful for her intervention to care he’s going to have to admit defeat. He downs it in one and wordlessly gestures for a refill. He drinks this one a little more slowly and finally he can feel his gums again.

Gold looks up to see Belle blushing faintly. Hopefully it’s guilt at the knowledge she nearly killed him and he’s just starting to wonder how he might capitalise on her conscience kicking in when she leans over and says “you - uh, you’ve got a little something right there,” and points to the corner of his mouth. 

He dabs his lips with his napkin.

“Uh, not quite,” Belle says, her voice more husky than usual, and all of a sudden she’s using her finger to capture a tiny morsel from his lower lip before she sinks back into her seat, shooting him a looks that dares him to acknowledge what she’s just done. Gold releases a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in and as he does so, a thought pops into his mind and once it’s there it takes an unshakeable hold. 

Grasping victory from the jaws of defeat, he now thinks that maybe there’s a way to up the ante a little.

He decides to put his theory to the test. Commenting that it’s really rather warm he starts to undo one of his cufflinks before rolling up his shirt sleeve until it’s halfway up his arm. Sneaking a glance at Belle he sees that she is staring at his forearm and there it is, what he suspects is her ‘tell’ - a little lick of her lips. Still not fully looking at her, he repeats the action with the other sleeve.

Again with her tongue.

Gold is careful to shut down any thoughts of why he’s so pleased at this development that stray beyond the fact that he now has the upper hand. He’s not in the slightest bit thrilled that perhaps the attraction he’s felt for her is not necessarily a one-way street. 

No, not at all. Not one little bit.

Gold glances at his watch. It’s surprisingly late so he thinks it’s about time he brought this evening to a close, however much fun he could have trying to discover more Belle Buttons he can press. 

Draining his glass of wine, he fires an opening shot at her. “Well Miss French, this evening has unfolded in the most unexpected way.”

From underneath his lashes, he sees Belle stiffen a little. Excellent.

He follows up with another volley. “And you’ve played a very clever game.” Tension is now radiating off her in waves.

“So, I’m prepared to make a new deal with you. I am prepared to let you off the dry cleaning bill.” He watches Belle sag with relief before he continues. “If you agree to give me a lesson in how to make fresh pasta.” 

He smirks as Belle tries to process what he’s just said. She looks completely bewildered so Gold continues silkily. “My house, tomorrow at 11 o’clock. We’ll have lunch at 1pm.” 

He gathers his belongings together, stoops to tickle Dave and then nods at Belle. “Please don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.”

He makes his way to the front door and turns to see Belle still sitting motionless, clearly stumped.

“Oh and Miss French. I think perhaps we might steer clear of chili.”

A tiny giggle erupts from Belle’s lips and Gold smiles. 

“Don’t be late” he says gently, and then he’s out of the door and making his way back outside. The storm has passed and the air is fresh and clean. He can’t resist a glance back up at the apartment and is just in time to see the curtain twitch. With a lighter step than usual, Gold makes his way across the road. 

He needs to put a call into Dove to track down a pasta making machine first thing in the morning. There is a date to plan.


	4. Chapter 4

The sky outside Gold’s kitchen window is just starting to glow with hints of pink and orange, signalling that the stormy weather has passed and a warm day is dawning. Clad in slate grey silk pyjamas, Gold has been awake since the birds first started singing, too jittery to really fall into a deep sleep. Steam is billowing from a freshly made black coffee (his second of the day) and he hopes this will help lift his energy levels.

Yawning, he turns another page of the instruction manual he’s currently perusing, pausing every now and then to examine the pasta machine sitting proudly centre stage. It’s so shiny he can see his own reflection in it and he wonders - not for the first time - whether he’ll ever use it again once today is over or if it will join all his other grievously underused gadgets that are gathering dust in assorted kitchen cupboards.

Gold takes a sip of coffee and then uses his cane to push himself up so he can cut two slices of thick crusty bread before popping them into the toaster. A few minutes later and just as he finishes spreading the marmalade onto each piece of toast his phone buzzes. 

Raising an eyebrow (who on earth is going to be contacting him at - he checks his watch - just gone six o’clock in the morning) he studies the message.

‘What sort of pasta do you like?”

It seems he’s not the only having had trouble sleeping. 

“The sort that is easy to eat” he replies, crunching down on his breakfast. “I don’t like high maintenance food,” and shudders when he remembers how long exactly it once took him to take a whole crab apart and how he felt when a tiny piece of shell landed on his neighbouring diner’s plate. And don’t even get him started on spaghetti. So much twiddly effort, so little reward.

“Orecchetti?”

“No need for that sort of language.”

A smiley-face icon appears on the screen, followed by “I see you’re not at your best first thing in the morning.” 

Gold snorts out loud at that but before he’s even started to prepare his response “Good to know” flashes up.

This makes him furrow his brow. Why would she need to know just how grumpy he can be before his first hit of caffeine of the day?  
Sadly he doesn’t have much time to give further thought to Belle’s thought processes because his phone starts to vibrate as he’s bombarded with a rather impressive list of different types of pasta, few of which he’s ever heard of before.

What’s strozzapreti when it’s at home? Surely she’s just playing with him now.

Eventually he decides to put her out of her misery before she wears out the ‘send’ button. He’s always loved Ravioli so that’s what he proposes, suggesting that Belle selects the filling. 

“Butternut squash with sage” and “I’ll bring the ingredients,” chirp his phone in quick succession. Gold waits a few seconds to see if there’s another message to follow but it seems not. He thoughtfully licks a buttery bread crumb from his finger and pours himself some orange juice. Seeing as he has plenty of time on his hands maybe he’ll even treat himself to another slice of toast and crack open the new jar lemon curd he’s been saving for a special occasion.

00000

Gold’s room looks like a crime scene. The duvet is covered in discarded shirts and there are at least two pairs of trousers draped over an armchair. He returns to the chest of drawers for the fifth time and after a quick rummage through, emerges triumphantly clutching a pair of jeans. He puts those on and rolls the hems up so they’re not dragging on the floor before selecting one of the first shirts he’d rejected; a button down in a deep burgundy with tiny navy blue polkadots, which he thinks is formal yet not too casual. 

He does it up wishing, not for the first time, that he’d kept a little of the weight off when he quit smoking. He sucks in his tummy for five seconds and then just gives up. Belle is many things but shallow and judgemental aren’t on the list. He’s about to select a pair of cufflinks when unbidden, an image of Belle staring unashamedly at his arms pops into his head and feeling uncharacteristically daring, he drops them back onto the dressing table and instead pushes the sleeves up to just below the elbow. 

Hearing noises emanating from downstairs, he makes his way to the kitchen to find Dove placing a bottle of white bordeaux in the fridge and two bottles of red on the kitchen counter. Well, Gold muses, if the conversation starts to falter at least he knows he can enjoy a decent glass - or two - of chianti. 

Dove declines an offer of a coffee and departs, a twinkle in his eye, and Gold is left to his own thoughts. Checking his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, his stomach clenches with nerves. Half an hour to go. A click of a button and soft classical music starts to play. Gold closes his eyes and lets the sound of the string section wash over him. 

Everything’s fine. It’s all going to be fine.  
He can repair the damage he’s inflicted, rebuild the trust that Belle had placed in him and prove that he values her friendship above Regina, above his love of deals, by relinquishing the control he so relies on, and handing it over to Belle. He only hopes she treats him well. 

00000

Across town, unbeknownst to Gold, Belle is having her very own mini wardrobe crisis. She’s running behind schedule thanks to Ruby rocking up to Belle’s apartment just before midnight clutching a bottle of wine and a tub of ice-cream, eager for a full de-brief on the takedown of the pawnbroker.

The bottle of amaretto that had followed the wine was - Belle feels on careful reflection - a bottle of amaretto too far, given it’s now just past ten o’clock, she’s still in her dressing gown, her hair resembles a rat’s nest and a troop of dancing elephants have taken up residence in her head. She also can’t quite shake off the feeling that perhaps she allowed the free flowing alcohol to loosen her tongue a bit and - had she really told Ruby how seeing Gold’s bare forearms had completely undone her? Belle really hopes, prays in fact, that’s where the confession ended because if some of her deepest desires have been spilled she may have to move to another country. Or perhaps allow the the elephants dancing up a storm in her head to escape and trample her to death.

Wincing at the sunlight streaming through the window, Belle bends down to gently scritch Dave's head. The cat has made a nest out of some of the dresses thrown haphazardly across her bedroom floor and she’s pleased one of them at least is relaxed and comfortable.

When the phone rings, Belle winces again. It would appear that everything and everyone is colluding against her this morning. She prays the paracetemol start to kick in.

Ruby. Just who she doesn’t need right now.

“What?” Belle mutters when she picks up.

“Well, it sounds like someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning.” Ruby sounds disgustingly cheery. She must have the constitution of an ox.

Rolling her eyes and then regretting it bitterly as tiny icepicks stab her brain, Belle continues to rifle through a selection of dresses. 

“Do you actually want something Ruby, or are you just ringing to rub my nose in it? Because in case the alcohol has not in fact killed off all of your brain cells, may I remind you that I have to be at Gold’s house in - oh, less than forty five minutes. And I am having a nightmare trying to choose what to wear.”

“Oh we’re back to calling him Gold now, are we? Last night it was James this, and James that and ohhhh James…” 

Belle actually removes the phone from her ear so she can glare at it.

“What do you want Ruby?”

Are we talking naughty or nice?”

Belle blinks for a moment, trying to follow her friend's line of questioning before realising that Ruby has taken pity on her and is steering the topic of conversation back onto safer ground. 

“We’re making pasta Rubes. So I’m after sensible but...”

A silk blouse sails through the air and lands on Dave who prrps in dismay.

“Not too sensible,” Ruby finishes for her. “Alright then. Well in that case wear the shirt dress - the pale blue one. It makes your eyes pop, it won’t matter if you get flour on it and then if it gets too hot in the kitchen you can always open a few more buttons.”

Belle would squeal if she didn’t think she’d explode in agony. There’s a reason why they’re friends and it’s not for Ruby’s unorthodox relationship advice.

“All is forgiven. You’re a genius.”

“Not a problem. Now I need to go back to bed and you need to go get your man,” and before Belle can issue a denial, Ruby hangs up.

Thirty minutes and one bracing shower later and Belle is almost feeling human again. Hair brushed and gleaming, subtle makeup in place, two buttons of her dress undone, ingredients and a bottle of wine nestling in a basket and she’s ready for whatever today is going to bring.

If Belle is being less than honest with herself she hopes they can restore their friendship and go back to lunchtimes together in the library (if it ever reopens), debating the merits of European playwrights versus their American counterparts and comparing respective travel experiences. 

The alternative - for Belle to be honest and own up to what she really desires - requires equal and excessive amounts of courage and alcohol and well, she thinks her liver needs a little time to recover from last night’s beating before she risks taking that particular path. So dishonesty is clearly the way forward. She can live with that, if she has to.

She checks herself in the hall mirror one last time and Dave, snaking around her legs, signals his approval with a gleam of bright green eyes. 

It’s time.


	5. Chapter 5

“Is it supposed to look like this?”

Belle and Gold both eye the pasta dough with misgivings. It’s looking grey, overly sticky and distinctly unappealing.

Belle consults her recipe again, but more in hope than for any other reason.

“It’s only eggs and flour, how hard can it be?” Gold opines from his side of the counter as he takes another sip of his wine.

Belle sighs. The filling has been long made and smells delicious but the main component is just not playing ball.

Gold’s once immaculate kitchen, replete with shiny instruments and gleaming table tops, is long gone and in its place is a ghostly environment, everything white and powdery. Even her host is becoming ever more dishevelled, his hair standing up on end and tiny traces of flour dusting his cheekbones. Belle thinks he’s never looked so good; good enough to eat, in fact. She swallows down a pulse of heat that rushes through her.

“Have you got any more eggs? If so we’ll have one more attempt and if that fails then how about burgers at Granny’s?”

Gold points to a ceramic hen and Belle finds six more eggs inside. He hasn’t contributed much all morning, apart from heckling and drinking alcohol. She decides it’s time he steps up the mark. 

“You. Crack the eggs. And this time make sure you remove any shell fragments.” She pushes a clean bowl and the eggs over to him and giggles when he salutes her. Belle’s having way more fun than she thought she would and she thinks Gold, too, is starting to relax and enjoy himself.

“Yes boss.”

Belle busies herself with weighing out the flour and then watches Gold carefully beating the eggs, concentration written on his face. For some reason she feels her insides slither like eels and then he looks up in time to catch her staring at him and she has to look away before her flaming cheeks give her away completely.

She knows she’s babbling but she has to break the silence that’s lengthening into something too meaningful to easily brush off. “So, I was thinking that - er, perhaps we overworked the dough, had it in the processor for too long or something so maybe we should just make the dough by hand. More control you know over how it feels?” Belle takes on board just enough breath before diving straight back in with a sentence she immediately lives to regret. Asking Gold if he likes to get his hands dirty sounds so wrong, so - uh, dirty, now she comes to think of it. And if the look that Gold’s sending her way that makes his eyes gleam with something dark and unreadable is anything to go by, it seems she’s not the only one to be interpreting her words that way.

Is her imagination or is the kitchen terribly warm? Without thinking, she pops open the top button on her dress because she really badly needs to cool down.

Gold’s head snaps down and then back up again to Belle’s face so fast that if she’d blinked she’d have missed it and there he is again, composed and collected as if it hadn’t happened. 

“Dirty hands it is then,” he says, but neutrally, and Belle can’t help noticing a tiny quirk of his lips. Deciding actions speak louder than words Belle silently tips the flour onto the work surface and the eggs follow swiftly after. They both study the mixture with interest and Gold invites her, with mock politeness to put her money where her mouth is. ‘Well I think it’s over to you to show me how it’s done. I believe that was the offer you put on the table.”

“Fine. Be prepared to watch the maestro at work,” she retorts and busies herself with washing her hands before plunging them into the mixture. It feels cool and strangely sensual as she starts to draw the flour into the eggy goo and she’s caught up in the motion of mixing the two together until a little choking sound brings her back to the present. She gets the sense that Gold has just averted his eyes, which are now focused on the glass he’s holding. 

Belle watches as he takes a sip and realises that she rarely sees him so undressed and thinks the casual look suits him. She likes a tousled, rumpled James Gold and she likes the fact that he’s willing to show her his more vulnerable side. Much as she enjoys the dry wit and dark humour, she likes this side of him too.

Suddenly feeling incredibly brave and hoping she isn’t completely misreading the signals, she decides to plunge herself into turbulent water. Belle hopes he’ll be there to save her from drowning.

“Uh, you couldn’t help me could you? It’s - it’s getting pretty warm in here and I could really do with..” and she waves her eggy fingers at him before gesturing at the top of her dress “cooling down.”

She watches him swallow, eyes watchful, before he places his glass very deliberately down and walks (so slowly Belle thinks, like time’s slowed down) around to her side of the table.

Stopping in front of her he’s close enough that when he speaks his breath dislodges one of the curls hanging down Belle’s cheek. “I’m not quite clear what it is you’re after,” he says, voice low and deep. Belle knows that he’s letting her back out but she’s come too far now to step away. 

She swallows hard. “My dress, Gold, I need you to just undo the top button. If I do it I’m going to get mixture all over my dress.”

He stays where he is, still watching her with eyes now darker than sin itself, weighing up his next move. Eventually (eventually) he seems to make his mind up. “Well, we can’t have you getting all filthy, now can we,” he teases and then slowly, infinitesimally slowly, he leans down and God, Belle wants to scream at him to pick up his pace, very deliberately pulls the popper apart. Her dress is cut in such a way that even with two buttons undone very little flesh is on show yet somehow she feels completely exposed.

Gold moves but only to stand behind her, and she can feel his chest moving in and out, in and out. They stand like that for what feels like a lifetime but is in fact probably only a matter of seconds before Gold says quietly “I thought I could do with some hands-on tuition” and before she can think his hands are on top of hers and together they’re bringing the dough together. Belle is aware of how large his hands are, of how long his fingers are, of the callouses she can feel. Everything is hypersensitive and she can barely breathe.

And then suddenly Gold’s stepped away and she immediately misses his warmth. Dismay makes her stomach plummet as she watches him walk over to the sink where he busies himself rinsing and drying his hands before he turns to her and says in a business-like tone,  
“well, I think that looks much more like it. Do we need to chill the dough or can we start to make the pasta now?”

Belle, struggling to work out what on earth happened in a matter of seconds to transform the man in front of her from Mr Sultry to Mr Hello Have we ever Met Before, remains silent whilst Gold stands there, his face a mask of polite interest, behaving as if none of the touching and the flirting ever happened.

And then a surge of pure fury rages up in Belle at how he’s playing with her emotions. Before she can stop to think, she’s crossed the floor and is standing in front of him - probably too close but what does it matter - and she can feel herself shaking. She’s had enough of this cat and mouse game. She knows now that she wants him - and wants him badly - and she’s fairly confident that this is reciprocated by the complicated, stubborn and fascinating man standing there with a stupid teatowel in his hand.

Gold looks a tiny bit afraid when the towel is snatched from him and tossed aside. Good. So he should. 

“You are -”

Gold raises one eyebrow when Belle trails off.

“I am-?” he prompts helpfully.

“Impossible.”

“Ah”

“I hadn’t finished, Gold.”

He assumes a ‘I’m waiting’ stance but this only riles her up even more, as does his hand wave, his casual invitation for her to continue with her character assessment. Well fine, ask and you get. 

“You are also-.” Again she grinds to a halt so Gold helpfully supplies her with some adjectives.

“Intelligent, witty, good looking?”

“None of those,” comes back the tart reply. “You’re - you’re impossible to get a read on. You’ve built up an armoury around you making it hard to know who you really are.”

They lock eyes. “And I want to know who you really are, underneath the prickliness and the cutting remarks and the fifteen layers of clothing. I need to know who James is, not Mr Gold the Pawnbroker, not Mr Gold the landowner, and most definitely not Mr Gold the dealmaker.”

Belle’s a little out of breath and stands there panting. He’s so close to her now that she can see tiny flecks of gold in his irises and she finds herself distracted by the discovery.

“Very well, Belle - what is it you’d know about the beast of storybrooke?” His voice is low and his accent is more pronounced than it is usually. Another thing, she thinks, that he keeps under tight control.

His proximity is having the effect of shutting down her brain. She can smell something tangy, like lemon, and she thinks it might be his hair. Whatever it is it’s nice and she has to stop hersefl from sniffing appreciatively. 

“Um”, she says intelligently.

The gold flecks sparkle in his eyes. He’s enjoying this.

“How about ‘er’?”

“How about about I slap you?” 

Gold puts his head on one side as if he’s giving this serious thought.

“Well, I wouldn’t be entirely opposed. Especially if there was some tickle thrown in as well.”

Belle’s open mouth makes Gold laugh. Really laugh. It’s not one of his sly chuckles, it comes from deep within him and Belle can’t help thinking it’s one of the nicest sounds she’s ever heard.

Alright then. He’s flirting openly now and flirting is something Belle can do. She walks the fingers of her left hand up Gold’s bare arms until they’re resting just below the start of his rolled up sleeve and she hears a stuttery breath. Well, maybe that’s her favourite noise. With her other hand she prises open the third button of her dress.

No. Now this is her favourite noise. It’s the sound of Gold panting as if he’s run up a flight of stairs.

“Cat got your tongue, Gold.”

“Minx,” she thinks she hears, but it’s so low and growly she thinks she’d better check.

“I’m sorry, what was that, I didn’t quite catch it.”

“You. Are. A. Minx. Clear enough for you that time?” 

Gold growling is something Belle likes very much indeed. “Perfectly, thank you,” she allows.

She runs her other hand up the other arm until it come to a stop and then flexes her fingers to grasp his forearm. His skin is warm and smooth and utterly, utterly wonderful. She’s just closed her eyes when a pair of lips ghost against her clavicle before making a slow but deliberate downward progression until they reach the fourth button. A gentle nip makes her look up. There’s something in Gold’s eyes as well as fire, it’s a question. He’s seeking her approval and oh does she approve. A small nod and then - well, Belle’s glad she dug out some of her best, laciest underthings.

Because from there events start to pick up speed. Somehow Belle’s hands are on Gold’s waist and then she’s sliding the belt from its buckle and it lands on the floor with a satisfying thud. Hre busy fingers are then tugging his shirt free, urgently seeking out more skin.

Gold is looking down at her with such open adoration that her heart stops for a second or two. And then she’s back to the business in hand.

“Too many clothes,” she mutters as she frantically works them undone. “What’s with the buttons, who wears a shirt with this many buttons?” She looks up at Gold who offers her a shrug in response. 

“You. Off. Now.”

Words of one syllable are vastly under-rated, Belle thinks as Gold obligingly divests himself of his shirt. She could do without the teasing through because it seems to be taking him an age to slip each button from its hold. Huffing in frustration she tries to take over but Gold slaps her hands away. “Patience is a virtue,” he murmurs and continues to reveal tantalising glimpse after glimpse of delectable flesh. He shoots a smirk her way, gold tooth glinting and right, his time’s up. He’s enjoying this far too much.

“Patience is vastly overrated,” comes back Belle’s response and proceeds to wrestle the shirt off him, a couple of buttons popping as she pulls at it with a little too much enthusiasm. She steps back to admire her handiwork (mmm, lovely) and then it’s time to focus on removing the rest of his clothing. Soon enough it’s all acres of soon-to-be explored skin, and teeth, tongues and heat. She becomes aware that Gold is frantically wiping the work surface clear and then suddenly she finds herself being lifted up and laid carefully down. 

Ah. That’s why.

Carefully, so so carefully, he toys with the hem of her dress, pushing it higher and higher up her thigh, his hands warm against her skin, until Belle hears herself begging (and Belle never, ever begs) for him to just touch her, please please touch her. 

He shushes her and continues to examine her, inch by inch, until he suddenly comes to an abrupt half. 

He’s found that she’s wearing lacey stockings and seems to approve if the hardness pressing against her is anything to go by.

“If I’d known what I was missing out on, I’d have happily have foregone the pasta foreplay,” Gold whispers in her ear.

Belle wriggles happily to encourage Gold’s further exploration. He obliges.

And then his hand stops again, this time right up against her centre and if she wasn’t already so lost, she’d be mortified at how wet she is.

His voice is almost unrecognisable, it sounds as if he’s run a race and will never be able to breathe properly again.

“Miss French,” he pants out. “It seems you’re a dark horse. Who knew that Storybrooke’s librarian would be so - .” It seem Gold approves of her lingerie choices (or lack of) and this approval has left him lacking his usual mastery of the english language. Belle can sympathise. She’d love to respond but her entire world is now reduced to the sensation of Gold’s clever mouth on her and the heat and the pleasure that are building within her. Long fingers curl inside her and her world goes white. 

000000

An hour and a shared shower later and they’re finishing off their now very late lunch preparations. The ravioli is made, and the scent of sage and butter is making Belle’s mouth water.

To Belle’s enormous satisfaction, Gold is in bare feet (who knew toes could be turn on), his jeans hem dragging on the floor and his t-shirt showing up some interesting contours that will require further and close examination. And Gold is clearly equally pleased, if the lustful looks being thrown at her are anything to go by. Who knew he’d so like seeing Belle in his polka shirt. Perhaps it’s the colour that makes her skin glow, perhaps it’s the way it’s riding up her thighs. Or perhaps it’s the fact the missing buttons mean not much is being left to the imagination. 

They’re just chinking glasses when Gold’s phone buzzes. He’s happy to leave it but when they see who the caller is he pushes it over to her to pick up, happy to let Belle savour her victory, hard won as it’s been. 

Regina’s day is about to go down hill.


End file.
